We Build New Home © Surazeus 2024 06 02 I dance into strange dream of wind in trees that speaks with voices of the ancient ones whose faces in shadows appear to me with eyes blue-silver as the midnight moon that pulls me from dark silence of the sea so I too sing with language of her waves. Though I live far across the storming sea my spirit flies on wings of Icarus to the misty Carpathian Mountain range where I walk along rivers of my heart to find hearths of stone in wood feasting halls where my Sarmatian ancestors once lived. I follow footprints in the muddy shore to gaping cave now veiled with vines of grapes where bear-fur cape with feathers of the hawk lies draped on the table with silver grail while diamond-tipped oak wand leans on the wall, where I left them three thousand years ago. Holding skull of Zalmoxis in my hand, I hear chant of the Getae in dark woods as they dance wild from drinking snake-blood wine brewed by Sabazius with mushrooms in honey till Kybele appears from swirling smoke and sings mercurial wail of aching hope. After performing the bear dance all night, I climb winding trail among silent pines where ghosts of my ancestors wander still with voices whispering lost tales in the breeze, till I arrive in grove of apple trees where they would gather for the summer feast. Bathed in sunbeams from the silvery sky, face illuminated with light of faith, Scythia, wearing white gown and jeweled crown, turns to face me as I approach her hearth, so I bow to her with reverent awe for she is spirit of my ancient tribe. Though I live far away across the sea, distant from primal homeland of my heart where my ancestors lived on river shores fifty thousand years in valleys of fruit, spirits of Scythia and Sabazius still live in secret cavern of my heart. We cannot return to our primal homes, for we have wandered far across the Earth, moving ever forward life after life to pave road of hope with ancestral bones, so we build new home in land where we live, and we die as our children journey on.
Surazeus Astarius Συράζευς Αστάριος. Cartographer. Epic Poet. Hermead epic poem about Philosophers 126,680 lines of blank verse. http://tinyurl.com/AstarianScriptures
Sunday, June 2, 2024
We Build New Home
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Orpheus wanders along rivers in Carpathian Mountains to find the cave where he was born.
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